


Blind Justice

by Winterstar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Pain, Police Brutality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-12
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3995047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working undercover, Neal witnesses a murder and the police go after him. Fills the interrogation square on my hc_bingo card.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Justice

Title: Blind Justice  
Author: Winterstar (aka dmk064)  
Genre: h/c, drama  
Pairing: only canon pairings  
Warnings: pain, police brutality  
Spoilers: Through season 3 episode 10  
Challenge response to: For the following prompt on Collar Corner: Prompt/Request: Something akin to the beginning of Mouse8's Suspect. Nothing long and involved like Suspect, just something where Neal is wrongly accused or his anklet malfunctions or someone tampers with the anklet data, causing the cops to burst in on an unsuspecting Neal. What I would really like is for Neal to completely and utterly not see it coming, preferably because he's in a bad way, maybe sick or injured or so utterly exhausted he can barely move (though sick and injured and exhausted would be teh awesome). Neal's spooked and shaken up and maybe hurt a little worse and in comes an angry and protective Peter to the rescue!

Summary: While working undercover, Neal witnesses a murder and the police go after him. Fills the interrogation square on my hc_bingo card.

A/N: Not sure I hit everything in the prompt at all. I found it difficult to answer since Mouse8’s story really already did it to some degree. I wanted something different, so I put a different spin to it. Hope the OP likes it! Other notes – no I do not think the brutality runs rampant in the police. So please, no flames on that – this was a plot device and nothing more.

 

As he lies on the backseat of the police cruiser, Neal pushes his face into the cushion. The fabric is torn, stained and smells, but he ignores it. His wrists are manacles together behind his back and he tries to draw a cleansing breath and fails. It hurts too God damned much. He smothers a moan as another curse is thrown back at him from the front of the car. They are only words but they feel like daggers slicing him in rapid succession. The sway of the vehicle through traffic jars his abused shoulder against the seat and he cringes as ligaments pull and stretch. He blinks back the perspiration threatening to stream into his eyes and prays they will get to their destination soon. He needs to get in touch with Peter, needs for Peter to set the New York Police Department’s finest (not) back on the path of the straight and narrow.

He shifts in the seat and, for the first time, wishes he could feel the weight of the tracking anklet on his leg. When Peter had tried to place it back on his ankle at the hospital there had been a malfunction. Peter considered forcing Neal to stay at the hospital, cuffed to the bed, but his bony weary look stopped Peter in his tracks. There were a few options. Peter could call the Marshals in and cart Neal off to prison for the night until they were able to get the tracker repaired, Neal could accompany Peter home, or Peter could trust him and drop him off at June’s. Trust had been in short supply lately and Neal thinks that Peter decided on the latter to prove to Neal it does still exist. At this moment, Neal considers the prison option would have been better than what he is about to face.

Now, Neal wonders if he should have asked to stay with Peter for the night. He squeezes his eyes closed and knows he couldn’t do that to Peter, not now, not when he’d just gotten Elizabeth back, safe and sound. They needed their time together; Neal needs to keep out of their way. He knows Peter still blames him, though he keeps it hidden and unspoken. But Peter relented and allowed Neal to return to June’s under the ever present eye of the FBI.

Where the hell was the van, anyway?

For the first time, he wishes the van had been parked outside his apartment. It wasn’t. There was supposed to be an FBI detail watching him, but they were absent when he was hauled off into the police car. He can’t come to terms with that right now. He has to refocus his energies on the fact that he’s in the custody of two very pissed off NYPD detectives ready to read him the riot act or worse. He knows it will be worse. He is, after all, involved in a case where a NYPD officer has been murdered.

PART 2  
There aren’t enough locks on the doors, security systems or dogs to make Peter feel at ease when he looks at his wife. She has been through hell and it stemmed from his obsession with his job, with Neal. He amends that his life needs to recalibrate. It is no longer about the job, the take down rate. After all, he is an agent of the Federal government; it shouldn’t be about the latest ‘score’. It should be about upholding the law and then checking out at 5 pm to come home to his beautiful wife, his Elizabeth.

He sits next to her in bed as she shifts and puts the book she has been reading on the side table. She leans up to him and gives him a soft kiss, her eyes are tired. He worries about her. Does she dream about it still? He does. He closes the sport magazine he has laid out on his lap and slides down beside her. His arm curls over her abdomen and he holds her as if she might disintegrate like a ghost in his grasp. Tonight is about her.

He turns off the light and they drift off together. The phone on the side table vibrates and he thinks about ignoring it. He does.

It stops, then starts again.

“Peter?” Elizabeth whispers.

“Hmm?”

“Are you going to get that?”

“Nope,” Peter says and pulls her tighter to him. “Staying right here with you.”

“Shouldn’t you check?” Elizabeth asks. “Didn’t Neal get hurt during the case today?”

“Few bruises, dislocated shoulder, nothing to worry about. He’s a big boy.” Peter doesn’t want to think about Neal right now. It has only been a few weeks since Elizabeth’s ordeal. He needs, wants to think about only one person, her.

“You’re sure?”

He nods into her hair and they ignore the phone as it vibrates for a third time.

PART 3  
“You got your damned phone call, what the hell else do you want?” Detective Klein says. His wide shoulders block out the fluorescent light above in the interrogation room. The tiles of the ceiling are stained with brown water from leaks. The hulk of a man above him is in silhouette and Neal cannot discern his features.

“He never answered.”

“That ain’t my fault,” Klein says then raises his chin to mirrored wall to the left side of the room. Neal turns away as he tries not to think about what that might mean.

He strains against the bonds they still have in place. Even after his phone call, they cuffed his wrists behind his back and now his arms are chained to the back of the chair. When he was brought into the station, they used a back door, and directed him to a basement interrogation room. Neal has only seen the two arresting officers who burst into his apartment and dragged him off while accusing him of murdering a police officer. He is aware that none of this is normal police procedure, and that he is in immediate danger.

The other arresting officer comes in. “Now, we need some information, Mister Armata.”

He needs to spill out the story as quickly as possible. “My name isn’t Michael Armata, its Neal Caffrey. I’m a consultant for the FBI. I work with Peter Burke in the White Collar division. You just have to call him. The phone number is in my cell. Speed dial, hit one.”

“I’ll hit someone,” Klein says and takes a swing at Neal’s face. He ducks but it still hits him squarely on the temple. The world swims about him in waves, the room moves in and out of focus as the jolt to his head moves his shoulder and he groans against the pain.

“Take it easy on him, Klein, we ain’t got much to go on here.” The second detective (Neal supposes he’s playing good cop) says. He is fairly certain his name is something like Murray or Murphy or something like that. He stands in front of Klein and studies Neal as he tries to bring back equilibrium.

“What?” Klein says. “We know Aramata was there with the rest of Hopper’s gang. He ain’t no part of a White Collar unit. They don’t look into drug runners. That’s for the narcs like us.

“We do when it is connected with a major international bond forgery ring. Ask Peter, we’re working with the FBI Narcotics unit and the CIA.”

Klein leans down and pushes his fist into Neal’s injured shoulder. Lights burst and explode in Neal’s vision. The shoulder joint inches out of place, as the force of Klein’s large hand on it deforms it. The pain radiates in pulses from his shoulder. It throbs with each beat of his heart and he thinks if he could quiet his pounding chest, just maybe the need to drop over and cry out would subside. The dislocation of his shoulder had been reduced at the hospital, he’d been released on orders he should keep the joint immobilized. He doubts the doctor meant in handcuffs, strained behind his back, with some police bully tormenting it.

“Officer Mckenzie was a good man, I met him,” Neal says as he grits his teeth. He tries to move away from the first, but any action at all sets off alarm bells in his shoulder and the need to vomit rolls his stomach.

“Don’t you use his name, God damn it.”

The smack to the head topples the chair over and Neal crashes to the floor. Unable to hold back, a scream erupts from his throat and he cries out when his abused shoulder slams into the dirty concrete floor. He lies there, flaring his nostrils in a vain attempt to stop himself from puking. He fails.

“Sonavu-.” The second detective says and grabs hold of Neal’s chair to right it. “You okay?”

Vomit mixes with the blood still staining Neal’s shirt. He looks up at the detective, his visual field blurs and flashes. Flames engulf his shoulder; it feels both numb and screeching with pain at the same time. He can no longer move it and he knows it has been dislocated again. Just the act of breathing heightens the pain. Everything about the room blares at him in a horrible cacophony of noise and light. The scraping of the chair, the gruff of their voices, and the stench of the vomit overwhelms him.

“Just call Peter Burke,” Neal yells at them. He clenches his teeth as the pain rips through his muscles and ligaments opening them wide and stretched beyond their limits.

“We’ll call Peter Burke,” the good cop says much to the dismay of his partner. He holds up his hand and says, “But we wait until its morning. You got six hours ‘til dawn. You think you can make it?”

Six hours.

With head bowed, Neal glances up at the men and realizes he has no choice. It is their game.

PART 4  
The call comes at six o’clock in the morning. Peter rubs a hand down his face and rolls away from the warmth of his wife’s body. She gives a soft sigh and he smiles. The phone vibrates again. He opens it and sees it is the NYPD.

“Peter Burke.”

“We have something of yours at the precinct.” The voice is unusually rough and tainted with anger. “We picked him up as a suspect in a homicide last night.”

“What? Who is this?”

“We could ask the same of you, Mister Burke.”

Shoving off the blankets and sitting up, Peter says, “That’s Agent Peter Burke, FBI. Who the hell is this?”

The caller ignores his question and says, “We’re holding a Michael Armata on the suspicion of murder.”

Peter flies through the room, his hands are on his shirt while Elizabeth jumps out of bed and goes to the closet to retrieve his pants. He forgets his socks as Elizabeth hands him his shoes. She stops, sees the problem and goes to the drawer for them.

He is speaking as he continues to dress. “Your suspect is a material witness. He’s my CI at the FBI. His name is Neal Caffrey. He was there when your officer walked into a FBI undercover operation.”

“If your story and your badge check out, you can come get your man.” The phone goes dead and Peter stands there, his shirt open, one sock on, his belt not buckled. He drops onto the bed, reviews the phone log, the voice mail and swears.

“Hon?” Elizabeth is standing in the closet doorway; she’s holding two ties for him to choose.

He flicks the speaker on his phone and allows her to listen. Neal’s voice sounds far away, cracked and ragged. “Peter, NYPD, they think I was involved in the murder. They arrested me. The FBI van wasn’t there.” Neal offers the precinct number and asks Peter to hurry. That was over six hours ago.

“Shit,” Peter says. He glances at Elizabeth and her expression reflects his worry. He opens his mouth as if he needs to say something, but no words come to him.

She crosses the distance between them and holds her fingers to his mouth. “Don’t, Peter. We both realize now how much Neal has changed our lives, both for the bad and the good. But he’s a part of our lives now and, well, that’s okay.”

Peter nods, but his shoulders sink. She covers him with an embrace. “Go get him, Peter.”

PART 5  
A police detective named Jett Murray leads him to the back room of the first floor of the precinct. The bustle of the department rises around him as officers, detectives, administrative staff and criminals move in some strange dance about the floor. He passes the glass walled office of the police chief. No one is in the office, otherwise Peter might have asked to address the current situation with the chief. Instead, he is escorted to the small interrogation rooms near the back of the building.

“He’s here,” Murray says and unlocks the door.

The door swings open and Peter’s heart plummets. He chokes out his anger. “What the hell happened to him?” He makes it across the room in one great stride and kneels at Neal’s side.

Neal’s body crumples over the table. His one wrist is attached to the manacles on the interrogation table, the other is free. His previously dislocated shoulder has been separated again and his arm hangs at his side. Fresh blood stains the side of his face and he slits his eyes open to stare at Peter. In the exposed space, the lines of pain and exhaustion shadow Neal’s face. He tries to smile, but fails and so fails in his attempt to cover up his discomfort. It is one of the only times Peter has witnessed Neal succumb.

“Morning,” Neal says as he tries to lighten the mood.

“What the hell happened to my man?” Peter crouches by Neal and looks up at the detective. “He works for the FBI and I sure as hell did not leave him like this last night.”

“Peter, don’t,” Neal says and grabs for his hand. The gesture falters and Neal cringes as his shoulder protests.

“Uncuff him now and get me your police chief.”

Murray opens up the cuff and helps Neal to rise. Neal nods to him as he sways but doesn’t allow the man to assist him any further. Murray starts, “Listen Agent Burke, McKenzie was a close friend of ours. He and Klein were like brothers, when we heard about what happened and that Armata was released. We went a little crazy.”

Peter glares at the wall, trying to handle the boiling pressure threatening to rupture his arteries. “A little crazy? He had a God damned dislocated shoulder. Now it’s dislocated again, his face is a mess. What the hell have you done?” Before he finishes, Neal wavers as he stands and starts a slow descent to the floor. Peter rushes to his side and slips an arm under his uninjured shoulder. He feels the slight tremors of exhaustion and pain shiver through Neal’s body. He needs to get him to the hospital.

“I want to know who did this. I want names, badge numbers,” Peter says as he starts his list. It is all he can do to stop himself from barreling into the detective and slamming his fist in his face over and again until he sees blood streaming from his nose and eyes. He considers dropping Neal back into the chair and letting the anger free, letting it take him into the red rage.

“Peter, don’t,” Neal whispers, grabbing onto Peter’s arm before he can move and adds, “Can we just go?”

He wants to see someone suffer; he wants to see cold justice. It is ironic that Neal is the one to hold him in place, to bring him back from the edge of the abyss. Peter looks to Neal and sees not only weariness but a glimmer of relief.

“This isn’t the end,” Peter states as he helps Neal from the room.

PART 6  
No one confesses. The names of the detectives at the police station are known but there’s only their testimony against Neal’s reports. When Peter investigates how the FBI van disappeared, the agents assigned to watch June’s house for the night only state they were called off duty to another assignment. Peter suspects this is a silent payback to Neal by some agents in the FBI who believe after the Keller incident with Elizabeth, Neal got off too easily. He sets it in motion to have them removed from the White Collar unit, he cannot trust members of his team who do not look out for each other.

It roils him and makes him feel guilty. Shouldn’t he be the one leading covert operations to make Neal pay for what happened to Elizabeth? Shouldn’t anger still eat away at the lining of his stomach and cause the bile to rise in his throat? If he is honest with himself, Peter has to admit there is a small part which promises payback someday to Neal. Yet he keeps that part in check and wonders why.

It becomes clear as he watches Elizabeth guide Neal to the guest bedroom after their second trip to the hospital in two days. He isn’t that kind of cop, that kind of agent. The law has always guided him and with that he hopes to show Neal an example of how things work and should work. How justice in the light of day is laid out. Though as he gazes down on his friend’s bruised face, he thinks that sometimes justice is blind and doesn’t understand the circumstances of real life and how things play out…or should play out.

Elizabeth slips by him and squeezes his arm before she disappears down the stairway. He stands in the door and stares at Neal.

“Peter?” Neal has his eyes closed. Peter suspects that Neal feels the pull, the weight of gravity around him.

“Neal?” His voice is questioning and light but his mind is stressed by the unbalanced weight around them as well.

Neal opens his eyes and turns his face on the pillow to look at Peter. “I don’t have to stay here. You and Elizabeth don’t have to do this for me.” Peter sees in Neal’s expression he feels unwelcome.

Peter looks up to the ceiling but cannot find the silver lining there. Instead, he drops his head and says, “You’re right, we don’t. But for now, you stay.” He stops and starts again. “You know, Neal, for all I know about you, I really don’t know much. If you would let me in, I might be able to help you.”

Neal nods but he is gazing out the window. The light curtains drift in and out with the early Autumn breezes. In a quiet voice, Neal says, “I stayed, Peter.” His words have an entire different meaning. Peter recognizes this, knows it is a confession of sorts.

It dawns on Peter for the first time since the mess of the treasure, of cloak and dagger, of Keller and Elizabeth, that Neal had stayed. He chose a side; it was with Peter and his life at the FBI. In no other way could Neal make such a bold statement. His action invited Peter in, not his words.

“I know,” Peter says and sits down next to the bed. “I know.”

Neal doesn’t smile, but there is a naked realism to his features which stabs into Peter’s heart. They have been cop and thief, agent and consultant, but Peter thinks, until this moment, they have never truly been friends until now. He reaches out and puts his hand on Neal’s forearm. It is a light touch on his injured arm. Neal covers his hand with his own.

THE END.


End file.
